


For All The Moments Never Known

by SinnamonSpider



Series: Only Us 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunk Sam, First Time, Frottage, Getting Together, M/M, Prequel, Sibling Incest, Song Lyrics, Sort Of, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 13:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12558368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: How Sam and Dean finally succumbed to each other: with the help of a good bottle of whisky and a quickly ticking clock.





	For All The Moments Never Known

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy folks! This is a little (hah) treat for anyone who enjoyed "When It Was Only Us": the full story of how Sam and Dean came to be together, before they go back in time and change things. I couldn't leave it untold!
> 
> Title and lyrics from "Glory" by Dermot Kennedy.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Feedback is phenomenal.

_He made his peace with letting go  
_ _Said some things he'd never dared to say_

  


Three weeks. That's all they had left. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. Thirty thousand two hundred and forty minutes. It was like that song from Rent, only shorter and worse, because no one gets dragged to Hell at the end of Seasons Of Love.

It was not enough; it wouldn’t ever be enough.

Dean swung like a pendulum between different manias: sometimes high and wild, eyes too bright and no fucks given, sometimes sunk so low he could barely get out of bed, could barely string together a sentence. It was alarming; Sam had seen his brother at Death’s door before, and he’d just been a paler, quieter version of his usual self, misgivings about fabric softener mascots and cracks about ugly nurses. This was new, different. Worrying.

Sam was always the same: a constant state of dread, getting steadily worse as the days ticked by.

Three weeks. And counting.

Sam slammed his laptop closed. Another day wasted on fruitless searching, slim leads that led to nothing. The sun was setting. Soon it would be twenty days. He rubbed furiously at his eyes and when he opened them again, stinging and tired, he looked over at Dean, perched anxiously at the edge of his bed, cleaning his gun with a visible tremour in his hands, pronounced enough that it made Sam nervous. When he stood, Dean’s eyes, ringed with dark circles from not enough sleep (“I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Sam. There’s no time.”), flicked up to his.

Sam tried to smile, but it was getting harder and harder and falling more and more flat each time. “Hungry?” he asked.

Dean twitched one shoulder in an abbreviated shrug. His appetite was just as whacked as the rest of his mind; sometimes he would eat like a starving man given a buffet (‘These could be my last chicken wings, man! No time to lose!”), sometimes he would refuse anything at all, despite Sam’s wheedling.

“I’ll go pick something up,” Sam offered, watching as Dean reassembled the gun. His fingers fumbled with the bullets as he loaded the clip. Sam waited patiently, and when the gun was loaded, he reached over and took it away with gentle hands, dropping it into the weapons bag. “Pizza? Burgers?”

Hands empty, bereft of distracting purpose, Dean slumped, spine collapsing in on itself. “Whatever,” he said dully, dragging himself across the bed to sit against the headboard, face turned away so Sam couldn’t see him.

“Okay,” Sam said, voice falsely light. He picked up the TV remote and set it on the bedspread beside Dean’s thigh. “I’ll be back.”

Dean didn’t reply.

Sam slipped out of the room, locking it behind him. He hovered on the doorstep for a second, trying to decide whether or not to go back and bring the weapons bag along with him; he didn’t want Dean to get any ideas while he was alone. But, Sam reasoned, Dean didn’t need a gun or a knife if he wanted to end things. He knew how to do that without any help.

He knew Dean didn’t want to die at all, but he also knew that given the choice, Dean would prefer to die by his own hand, on his own terms. Anything would be better than hellhounds.

Every morning when Sam woke up, before he opened his eyes, he steeled himself, ready to come across the body of his brother. He knew Dean would keep it neat, try not to distress Sam too much. As though less blood would mean less pain.

Every morning when Sam woke up, looked over at the other bed, and saw his brother still alive, still breathing and whole, at least for now, he sent up a prayer of thanks, without a thought to if it would be heard. Dean’s death was hard enough to think about, what with the heart attack two years ago, and then the never-ending horror of the Mystery Spot. He didn’t know what he would do if he came upon Dean’s body once more.  

He drove idly, without purpose, and when he realized he’d come to a stop and parked, he had to look around to see where he was.

A liquor store. He was parked in the lot, staring at the neon OPEN sign flashing on and off, another one in the shape of a beer bottle blinking in tandem. There were no restaurants in sight. Sam sighed.

He could at least pick up a six-pack, he reasoned, climbing from the car. No point in wasting a trip.

He stepped through the automatic doors, the fluorescent lights too bright in his eyes. He cut through an aisle at random, heading for the beer walk-in at the back of the store, when a bottle caught his eye.

It was a thing of beauty: Johnnie Walker Blue Label, the same one Dean had mentioned bringing to Rufus. It must have been a special edition of some sort, displayed as it was in a velvet lined case. Sam paused, eyed the price tag, cringed, and walked away.

As he neared the end of the aisle, he slowed. Stopped. Turned around. Walked back up to the display. He ran a finger over the printed numbers on the tag, heaved a sigh, and picked up the bottle.

Back in the car, with a bottle of whisky that cost more than his first semester textbooks - even counting the big, fat, useless pre-requisite courses - Sam ran a rough hand over his face. Dean, shockingly, seemed to have gone off alcohol as his deal reached the deadline; a surprise that made Sam suspicious. But he also knew that Dean wasn’t sleeping well. Maybe this would help.

He carried the bottle into the motel room, cradling it like a baby. Dean looked up when he came in, brow furrowing at the sight of Sam without food. “What’s that?” he asked as Sam set the bottle on the bedside table.

“Dinner,” Sam replied, wiping a layer of dust out of the water glasses on the small sideboard. He figured it was probably sacrilegious to drink Johnnie Blue out of shitty motel water glasses, but they were short on options and it was probably better than the plastic cup in the bathroom. He crossed the room with the somewhat-clean glasses, settling on his bed and reaching for the bottle.

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean said, throwing a sideways glance at his brother; the most emotion he’d gotten out of Dean all day, Sam noted silently. “Is it that bad?”

Sam bit down the answer to that, settling for peeling the seal off the top of the bottle and cracking it open. He poured a few fingers into each glass, screwed the lid back on, and held a glass out to Dean.

It took a few seconds before Dean reached for the glass, his fingers brushing Sam’s as he accepted the drink. He cast a shrewd glance at the bottle. “That shit costs a fortune, Sam,” he said darkly.

“You’re worth it,” Sam said, without thinking, and the words struck him realized what he’d said. “So, uh, don’t waste it,” he followed up quickly.

Dean looked at him, steady, but with dull, sad eyes that made Sam’s heart break. “Okay, Sammy,” Dean said softly. “You wanna drink? We’ll drink.” He clinked his glass gently against Sam’s and took a small sip of the whisky. He closed his eyes as he swallowed, and for a second his face changed, a little of the old Dean peeking through. “God, this stuff is good.”

Sam barely tasted the liquor as it slid down his throat, eyes locked on that glimmer of old Dean, _his_ Dean. He knocked back the rest, feeling warmth bloom in his stomach almost immediately: the wonders of quality liquor and a tolerance level that stymied his college friends (“You’re a giant! How does it hit you so fast?”).

Dean shot him a look of mild horror. “Sam, this is _Blue Label_. You don’t gulp this. That shot was probably thirty bucks worth.” But again, Sam was locked onto the emotion animating his brother’s face, and he knew it was worth far more than thirty dollars. He topped himself off, making a show of ignoring Dean’s words, but secretly cherishing each one. “You’re behind,” he snarked lightly, and watched in delight as Dean knocked back the remaining liquor in his glass with a defiant glare.  

Sam splashed more whisky into Dean’s waiting glass. Dean held it up to the light, then cut his eyes sideways at his brother. “Jeez, Sam, are we getting tanked?”

“Maybe,” Sam replied, downing half his portion.

“What are we celebrating?” Dean’s competitive edge was roused now, as he raised the glass to his lips and drank.

“Nothing.” Sam swallowed the rest of the liquid in his glass, noting absently that he felt pleasantly warm and his fingers and toes were tingling very slightly.

“Not much to celebrate lately, huh?” Dean’s fierce expression slipped, the lassitude filtering through. “Don’t talk about that,” Sam insisted, focusing on not spilling as he filled both their glasses again.

“Sam, I know what you’re trying to - ”

Sam downed his shot. “Drink,” he gasped, feeling the burn on that one. “You’re behind.”

“Sam - ”

The floor moved dangerously under his feet as Sam stood, clutching the bottle, but he managed the space between the beds without falling, flopping down on Dean’s bed. “Drink,” he said again, and Dean watched him for a minute before swallowing the liquor down. “Okay, Sammy,” he repeated, just as before, soft and deliberate. “You wanna get drunk? We’ll get drunk.”

“You’re drunk,” Sam retorted. He made to fill the glasses again, but Dean kept moving his, the bastard, and then Sam felt the bottle tugged from his hand.

“C’mon, lightweight, despite the fact that we’re knocking it back like fuckin’ Wild Turkey, this shit is too good for you to spill.” Dean filled both glasses. His eyes were bright now, watching Sam with a look of mingled concern and amusement, and Sam was so happy he could cry. That was his Dean, snarky and sharp, with none of the manic highs and lows he’d been switching between. Those moods broke Sam’s heart.

Glancing at the bottle clasped loosely in Dean’s hand, Sam was shocked to see it was nearly half empty. “Hey, that’s like, two tanks of gas worth,” he grinned, raising his glass to Dean in a mocking salute. Dean scowled. “Haha, very funny.” He watched as Sam gulped down his shot. “You’re gonna be hustling pool for months to make up for this.”

“Months,” Sam gave a half-laugh that might have contained a sob if someone had been listening closely. “We-we don’t have months, Dean. We only have three - three - ” his voice cracked dangerously and Dean sat bolt upright, whisky sloshing in his glass. “Sam, don’t,” he said, warning dark in his voice, but Sam had started and couldn’t stop. “Don’t tell me don’t, Dean, because we don’t have time for it, we don’t have _time_.” His hand reached out, groping, and wrapped around Dean’s wrist. He shifted his fingers around on the warm skin until he could feel Dean’s pulse beating beneath them, strong and steady.

“God, it’s the Pierpont all over again,” Dean muttered. He downed the rest of the liquor in his glass and set the bottle on the nightstand, then slid Sam’s empty glass from the hand not currently clutching his wrist. “Sam, please,” he started, but Sam shook his head and lunged forward. He heard Dean’s words echo in his head, remembered the Pierpont, the whisky and Jager, scared to death at his father’s warnings. Remembered clutching at Dean, desperate and terrified, begging and pleading, his hand on Dean’s face. It was himself he was scared for at that moment, but this was different: this time he was scared for Dean, and that made it all the more worse.

His empty hand fisted in the neck of Dean’s t-shirt, twisting the fabric. “Dean, I can’t do this. I can’t do this without you. I can’t. I never could.”

“Yes you have, Sam, yes you can,” Dean said placatingly, his own hand coming up to encircle Sam’s wrist. “What about Stanford, huh? I wasn’t there.”

“You were - you were a phone call away. You would have come if I needed you to. You can’t come back from - from - ” he couldn’t make himself say it, words sticking in his throat, choking him, and he could hear his breath catching in his chest. “You can't - I can't.”

“Sam, _stop_ ,” Dean said harshly, and through the rushing white-noise of fear pounding in his ears, Sam heard the tremour in Dean’s voice, could feel the quiver where his fingers were closed around Dean’s wrist and where Dean’s hand was clasped over his own. “I’m beggin’ you, man, please,” Dean went on. “Don’t get weepy drunk on me. I can’t handle it right now.”

Sam snorted, tearing his hands off his brother like he’d been scalded. He twisted away, grabbing for his empty glass and the Scotch bottle, and splashed the golden liquor into the glass. “Fine,” he said sharply, raising the glass to Dean in a mocking salute. “I’ll get a different kinda drunk.”

“Sam - ” Dean started, hand coming up to rub over his face, but Sam downed the shot and gasped out a breath as the liquor burned down his throat. “Fuck.”

Dean’s face twisted as he dropped his hand, eyes holding steady on Sam; a burning, fitful look in them. Sam scowled back. He shoved the mouth of the bottle against Dean’s lips, tilting it up. “Drink,” he snapped, and Dean had no choice but to swallow or choke. His throat worked as he gulped the liquor, then his hand came up to knock the bottle away, hard enough that it clipped his lip against his teeth. “Jesus fuck, Sam, what is wrong with you?” Dean demanded, snatching the bottle away from Sam and rolling across the bed to slam the bottle down on the far nightstand. He stayed where he was, eyeing Sam balefully across the expanse of the bed, and Sam found himself shaking, missing the heated line of Dean’s body pressed against his. The space between them, across the rumpled sheets, may as well have been miles.

Sam watched a bead of blood welling on Dean’s full lower lip where he’d bitten himself, mesmerized by the droplet, crimson on plush pink. Dean’s tongue swiped out to lick the blood away and Sam felt himself getting hard in his jeans.

He dropped his eyes then, hands coming up to dig fitfully into his hair, gripping hard in an effort to get hold of his scattered feelings. The whisky pounded in his head, singing through his veins. As he sat there, chest heaving, he felt the bed shift and a warm, firm hand came down on his shoulder. “Sam?”

He looked up to find Dean right there, once more as always, bright eyes watching him carefully. The blood had beaded on his lip again, and Sam’s eyes were drawn down to the curve of those pink lips, watching as they moved to form Dean’s favourite word in the world. “Sammy?”

Sam forced his gaze upwards, locking onto Dean’s eyes, and felt his heart cave in at the emotions swirling in the bottle-green depths. Fear, concern, exhaustion; love.

 _Want_.

Sam knew Dean loved him. It was never a question he’d needed to ask himself. But whether or not Dean _wanted_ him - wanted him fiercely, deeply, darkly, in all the ways brothers should never want each other - Sam had been asking himself that question for years now. Long years, tense with shared looks and bodies pressed too close for whatever reason was convenient; years spent with Dad giving them hard looks; years of Sam biting his lip as he came, hot and wet and intense, drawing blood in order to stop his brother’s name slipping off his tongue. Sam knew that he wanted: had known it for so long now. But Dean - he never knew if Dean wanted.

Well, now he knew.

“Dean,” he breathed out, barely audible, and Dean groaned, long and low, and reached across the space between them to haul Sam forward, drag him in until their breath mingled. “Sam,” Dean said once, and then his lips were on Sam’s, warm and tasting of copper and whisky.

It was everything Sam had ever imagined, ever fantasized about, in his dirtiest, filthiest thoughts. Dean’s mouth was warm and firm against his, slick tongue slipping through Sam’s parted lips without delay, without hesitation. Dean’s hand, big and broad, came up to cradle Sam’s jaw, angling him just right. Sam hummed a sound against Dean’s lips and Dean echoed it back, lower and darker.

Sam’s head was reeling; a deadly combination of liquor and Dean. He forced himself to speak, tongue feeling swollen and thick after tangling with his brother’s. “Dean - please, I need you to - ” Dean’s lips cut him off, tongue delving into Sam’s mouth, licking the words right off his tongue. “Slow down, Sam,” he whispered against their joined mouths, and Sam shook his head frantically, pulling away enough to talk. “Can’t, can’t, we don’t have time - ”

“We’ll make time,” Dean promised, bringing up a hand to drag his thumb roughly over Sam’s lower lip. “We’ll _take_ the time. I swear, Sam, we’ll take the time. Got nothing left to do anyways.” He dove back in, nipping lightly at Sam’s mouth. “Got all th’ time in the world for this. For you.”

Sam let himself go limp, let Dean tug him down, dragging Sam on top of him, until they were pressed together in a long, hot line; chests and crotches hard against each other, legs tangled. Dean skimmed his hands down Sam’s back over his ass, where they slipped under Sam’s jeans, under the waistband of his boxers, clenching tight in the meat of Sam’s ass. Sam gasped at the touch, grinding himself down into Dean’s hips, where he could feel their hard cocks aligned, and Dean laughed in delight at the motion. “Yesss, Sam, God,” he hissed, pushing himself upwards again, inviting the downward shove of Sam’s reply.

They built a rhythm, hard and fast and dirty, swiveling and grinding against each other until they were sweating through the clothes they still hadn’t managed to take off. Sam twisted his head to the side, baring the long expanse of his neck to Dean’s teeth, moaning loud and long as those teeth sank into his skin where his jaw met his throat. Dean sucked hard on the flesh, worrying it until the blood flushed the surface, turning it dark purple, and Dean licked over it, hot and wet, satisfied with his work.

“Dean, fuck, fuck,” Sam gasped, burying his face in his brother’s shoulder, inhaling salt and sweat, whisky and Dean. His release was just out of reach, and he dug himself deeper into the cradle of Dean’s hips, chasing friction and pressure and relief. Dean chuckled dark in his ear, hands hard on Sam’s hipbones as he dragged them harder together. “C’mon, Sammy,” he encouraged, low and gritty, and Sam felt his orgasm hit him like a freight train, dick spurting hot and wet into his jeans, where he was crushed up against Dean like they were one.

He was still caught in the grip of his pleasure when he felt Dean buck hard against him, and he pried his eyes open just in time to see Dean’s roll back in his head as he came, to see Dean crying out his brother’s name as he came, to see Dean _as he came_. The realization crashed over him just as the aftershocks slowed, and Sam went boneless, like a rag doll, slumping down over the twitching limbs of Dean, still caught in the throes of ecstasy.

Beneath him, beneath his orgasm-weak body, Dean also went limp, melting into the mattress, arms slipping down from where they were still jammed down the back of Sam’s jeans to flop onto the bed. Their chests heaved together as they fought to get their breath back, lungs straining.

After what might been a minute or a millennium, Dean stirred under him. “Sam, you weigh a ton.”

“Mmm,” Sam hummed back, loose and brain-dead.

Dean shifted under him, wriggling until he was free of his little brother’s considerable dead weight. Sam whined at the loss of contact, but Dean didn’t go far. He curled himself around Sam, legs tangling, arm heavy over Sam’s back. “Sleep, Sam,” he encouraged.

Sam moaned an argumentative sound. “Nngh. Can’t. No - no time.”

Dean stroked over his hair, pulling him closer, nestling him deeper. “Sleep. We’ve got nothing but time.”

 


End file.
